Seeking Authentic Voice

For the last few years I have suffered from periodic bouts of insomnia. This poem speaks about that experience: Passing by, he could be anybody: A thief, a tradesman, a doctor On his way to a worried house. But when he stops at your gate, Under the room where you lie half-asleep, You know it is not just anyone - It is the Night Traveler. You lean your arms on the sill And stare down. But all you can see Are bits of wilderness attached to him - Twigs, loam, and leaves, Vines and blossoms. Among these You feel his eyes, and his hands Lifting something in the air. He has a gift for you, but it has no name. It is windy and wooly. He holds it in the moonlight, and it sings Like a newborn beast, Like a child at Christmas, Like your own heart as it tumbles In love's green bed. You take it, and he is gone. All night - and all your life, if you are willing - It will nuzzle your face, cold nosed, Like a small white wolf; It will curl in your palm Like a hard blue stone; It will liquify into ...

Passing by, he could be anybody: A thief, a tradesman, a doctor On his way to a worried house. But when he stops at your gate, Under the room where you lie half-asleep, You know it is not just anyone - It is the Night Traveler. You lean your arms on the sill And stare down. But all you can see Are bits of wilderness attached to him - Twigs, loam, and leaves, Vines and blossoms. Among these You feel his eyes, and his hands Lifting something in the air. He has a gift for you, but it has no name. It is windy and wooly. He holds it in the moonlight, and it sings Like a newborn beast, Like a child at Christmas, Like your own heart as it tumbles In love's green bed. You take it, and he is gone. All night - and all your life, if you are willing - It will nuzzle your face, cold-nosed, Like a small white wolf; It will curl in your palm Like a hard blue stone; It will liquify into a cold pool Which, when you dive into it, Will hold you like a mossy jaw. A bath of light. An answer. Mary Olive...